New Tale: The Lesson

[Lagwolf]

The Sage was at his desk typing away, trying to muster even a little inspiration to write another tale for his memoirs. Several of his colleagues had suggested that he write about some of his various real encounters so that the next generation might learn from him.

The Sage's main problem was that he could only remember the dumb things he had done over the years and not the things he did right. Rupert suggested that this might be because in their business, screw-ups often led to death or something far worse . The Sage and Rupert had not managed to have either fully happen to them, but that did not mean they hadn’t had a few close calls. Unable to muster the oomph to remember one of his wins, he decided it would be better to write another advisory. This one would be of the simple variety and one that might cause some to wonder how he had survived so long.

"It was many years ago, right about the time when I began to go from mythos swot to active adversary of the Great Old One and his minions. In a sense I went from the theoretical, always prattling on how about this might be countered or that might be sent back whence it came, to the practical job of making sure they made no more in-roads than they had already and, with any luck, pushing them back a bit.


As one might expect with the battle against Cthulhu, you don?t answer an advert in the local paper. It takes many years of proving yourself in what they called now ?the scene? to prove your worth. I frequently wondered if I did less work for my doctorate than I did to become the Sage. There are various disciplines one must master; some sort of degree in each served one in good stead along the way.


Despite it sounding trite, I never set out to be a hunter of the nasty spawns of Cthulhu. I was merely fascinated by myths and their cycles. It was the following encounter that got me fore-square into the middle of all this chaos.


An acquaintance of a friend of mine was having an awful time with her teenager, nothing new that of course, but she thought it was more than mere teen angst. In what little I could gather from my friend. She claimed he was being plagued by nightmares over a creature of particularly nasty nature. The poor lad was not sleeping well and she was worried he might eventually end up at AmHi (a mental institution in Maine) if his nocturnal rantings were heard by anyone other than her. His imminent return to university was not making things any easier.


I was convinced, or, more accurately, harangued into helping out. I regret to say that I forced my friend to come along with me and keep me company as we observed the teen as he slept. But then again, our trip to Lewiston, Maine heralded a whole series of mistakes on my part. Mistakes that would trouble me as long as I shall live.


We arrived in Lewiston on a cold, if not very snowy evening, having both made an effort to get as much sleep as possible the night before. Our hostess, let’s call her Anne Marie, was most relieved at our arrival. She had prepared a rather nice meal for all of us, including her son, who despite being rather bleary eyed, was rather talkative. Well, about everything barring his dreams, that is.


This, of course, in retrospect was our first mistake. While we did manage to avoid having any wine, or rather I did, the meal was more than enough to induce a ?food coma? later in the evening. After several teas post-dinner we were shown the rest of the house. It was a rather typical 2 bedroom detached house that can be found all over Maine. About 100 years old, the place was made of wood and rather homey. However, there was nothing the slightest bit ?haunted house? about the place, and Anne Marie, as with many of her fellow Quebeckers, was very house proud. In order to keep our synapses firing and in an attempt to get more out of young Marc, the three of us chatted until well after midnight. Anna Marie was worried but had found herself headed for bed a few hours before.


As it became closer to the time Marc would finally succumb to bed, I felt more and more odd about what I was doing. I had never watched someone sleep before and could imagine it might be a bit disconcerting for the teen in question. If he was nervous, he did not seem to show it as we all gathered in his room, my friend and I in chairs and Marc on his bed in a far corner. We both had lights and books to keep us occupied. It was agreed that until he went to sleep we would read and not chatter.


In the end that would not be necessary for very long. No doubt due to his acute exhaustion Marc was asleep and snoring lightly in what seemed to be an instant. My second mistake came next. I failed to notice that my friend had fallen fast asleep in his chair, not even being decent enough to snore and let me know.


I remember swearing to myself as I turned and spoke to him.


I suppose that the reason I am not mentioning my friend?s name is that after this he never spoke to me again. I am sure after I finish my tale you will understand why.


As I tried to stay awake I realised I had made another goof. I was attempting to stay awake, and observe Marc while reading Ayn Rand?s Fountainhead; big mistake.


Fighting off, or so I thought, food coma and Russian-like wordy prose, I continued my task.


It was not until the first tentacle-like appendage slapped my face that I realised I had fallen asleep. As you would imagine I startled awake, falling off my chair onto the floor. What I saw before filled me with revulsion. Four of the type of appendages that attacked me were firmly attempting to plug themselves into the ears of the sleeping men. This is where, once again, I made another grave error.


I used my closest weapon to hand, Rand?s novel, and I whacked my friend so that he might wake. His reaction to what he saw was not as calm as mine. He began to scream?a scream resembling a banshee or a wild head-hunter rushing to battle. He fell back on his chair and curled himself into a ball.


Lacking any sort of weapon I picked up whatever things were lying around and started throwing them at the writhing mass of tentacle-like appendages coming from the far wall. I first attempted to knock the tentacles out of Marc’s ears and mouth but soon realised this was far too ambitious. Instead I aimed for the thickest part of the body with my paper projectiles. I endeavored to throw the books so that they hit with their bindings rather than open. This was mostly successful. Rand?s book was again used in anger, as well as a copy of Joyce?s Ulysses, a thick book on Fortran, and whatever other book I could my hands on?.


The tentacles managed to grab me several times but were never able to hold on. They seemed to have a bad reaction to my person. No one was watching, but it must have seemed daftly terrifying as I pelted this silky green tentacled mass with books. It eventually worked; how long it took I have no idea, but the wall returned to its former shape with a great slurping sound.


Marc, despite his twisting and turning in nightmare, remained asleep on his bed, no tentacles touching him now. My friend, on the other hand, was not so lucky. His hair was now bleached white and his features were more pronounced, his eyes sockets seemed bigger, as he stared at the floor beside him. As he fell he hit his head on the bookcase beside him, injuring himself enough we were compelled to call an ambulance. He never recovered, and I was never able to get in touch with him again.


Marc, on the other hand, ended up fine, never really knowing what went on that night. His mother was pleased, of course.


As a result of these goings-on I was tossed headlong into the sordid and bizarre world that I am in now. When word got out on what I managed to do?I became the focus of a lot of attention in the scene. It would take a full year’s time before I was fully assimilated.


What always bothered me was that none of the people I spoke to about my encounter ever chastised me for what happened to my friend. Either it was never mentioned or it was seen as collateral damage. Sadly, he was the first of many casualties in this war, but still he is the one that most upsets me."


The Sage took a sip of his tea and sighed. He hoped that not every tale of his would be as hard to tell as this one.